by Katy Paige
Geez, what a stupid, nonsensical thing to say.
But Zoë didn’t seem confused or curious at all. She just looked up at him, those deep brown pools alert and thoughtful and…familiar.
Wait. Familiar? No. He didn’t know any brown-eyed brunettes her age, and yet…
“Have we met?” he asked her, tilting his head to the side.
“Not yet,” she answered in that dazed, breathy voice that, frankly, he found a little bit distracting.
“I’m Paul.” He held out his hand. “Paul Johansson. Thanks for saving my dog.”
“I’m Zoë,” she said, taking his hand in hers, “and it was my pleasure.”
***
Zoë swallowed uncomfortably, waiting for him to let go of her hand, but he held on to it, staring at her, and she almost started to panic.
Was it possible that with dark hair, dark eyes, a scar and a little extra weight that—somehow, someway—he could still recognize her?
Look away, Zoë.
She knew she should, but she couldn’t help staring up at him, drinking him in. He was so beautiful, so dear to her, his hand so strong and warm in hers…she couldn’t bear to look away.
He must have been out for one of his late-afternoon weekend runs because his dirty blond hair was wet and spiky from sweat, as though he’d drawn a hand through it, and his face had the rosy flush of exercise under an even tan. His blue eyes, which were greener than she’d anticipated, sparkled with intelligence and compassion, and his angular, chiseled face was so handsome, it just about made her heart stop.
Maggie wasn’t entirely accurate in describing his body. Fit was an understatement. Cut was more like it.
“You just, um—you look familiar to me,” he said, furrowing his brows together.
“I never—” She cleared her throat. “I’ve never been to Montana before.”
“Tourist, huh?” he asked, withdrawing his hand slowly as he stared down at her.
“Um…” Tell him who you are!
But before she could say anything else, he’d pulled away from her, opening the front door for her to follow him inside. She took a deep breath, giving herself a little pep talk about composure, and preceded him into his house.
She chuckled lightly in wonder, standing in his living room—everything was just as he had described it: stairs directly in front of her headed upstairs to the four bedrooms, and to her right was the front parlor with a potbelly stove, a couple of couches, a desk, a fireplace and an open-plan dining area with a table for ten. Just beyond the table she could see the kitchen in the back and the sliding doors that led to the back porch beyond. She knew if she walked out there, she’d find his favorite swing with a view of Electric Peak. It’s where he always sat when he wrote to her. He called it “their place.”
“Make yourself at home,” he said, putting Cleo on the floor. He started up the stairs, calling over his shoulder: “I’ll be right back with the first-aid kit.”
She tilted her head, watching as he took the stairs two at a time, and listened at the bottom of the stairs as he moved around upstairs, the floorboards creaking pleasantly.
I’m here, she thought to herself. I’m really here.
Now that you’re here…tell him, said the voice in her head, brooking no argument.
I will, she fired back. Just let me catch my breath.
She ran her fingers lightly along the back of the couch as she made her way into the cozy living room, sitting down gingerly on the edge of a rocking chair in front of the stove. Cleo scampered toward her, putting her little paws up on the un-scraped knee of Zoë’s scarred leg.
“You wanna come up?” she asked, scooping Cleo into her arms and sitting back as she settled the little dog on her lap. She rocked back and closed her eyes for a second, scratching idly behind Cleo’s ears, and inhaling deeply.
His house smelled like wood fires and pine and fresh air. Bacon was fried not too long ago and clean laundry had been recently folded. It was homey and comfortable, a combination of smells she could get used to. Fast.
Her hand was still warm from his touch and she brushed her fingers over her lips lightly until Cleo demanded another ear scratch. Zoë sat up straighter, opened her eyes and grimaced.
He is unbelievably handsome.
He was much more handsome in person—his blue eyes quick and concerned, focused and warm up close as they couldn’t be in a photo.
He towered over her, his tall, hard-looking body still somehow elegant and she longed to see him with his glasses on. She had worried, at some points during their correspondence, that she wouldn’t be attracted to him once she met him, that he would somehow fail to live up to the expectations she’d placed on a couple of photos. She’d had no cause for worry. Her entire body was tingling and pulsing just from being around him, which was making it hard for her to focus, hard to remember the reason she was here in the first place.
You should have told him before coming in the house! You should have gotten it over with, because now—
“I see Cleo’s made herself at home! I hope you don’t mind?”
She looked up. He’d changed from his workout clothes to worn jeans and a clean white T-shirt. And—oh, crap!—he had his glasses on now, which made him not only sexier, but more familiar to her.
Keep your panting tongue in your mouth, Zoë!
“No, she’s…fine,” she managed, looking down quickly, hoping he didn’t see the naked lust on her face.
Holding up a small red pouch bearing a white cross, he gestured to her knee. “Mind if I take a look?”
Without waiting for an answer, he knelt down in front of her, his waved, dirty-blond head bowed over her knee. She rocked forward in her chair, achingly aware of him so close to her, forcing herself not to reach out and run her hands through his hair as he had run his hands through hers on the front porch.
He looked up with a grim face. “I don’t think your jeans are salvageable. Mind if I rip them open a little more?”
He had brushed his teeth while upstairs. She could smell the mintiness of it, feel the warmth of his breath on her hand, which still idly patted Cleo. If he leaned forward just a touch his lips would touch her hand. The idea made her moan softly.
“Painful, huh?” he asked, mistaking the small sound for pain.
“Mmm.” Painful, all right. “You can rip them.”
He leaned forward slightly, hooking his index fingers into the frayed, dirty hole over her knee. The pads of his fingers touched her skin as he yanked the fabric roughly, the sound and gesture making her whimper with longing.
“You okay?” he asked, flicking his blue eyes to hers.
“Mm-hm,” she murmured, barely able to make a coherent sound with his fingers on her skin. She couldn’t ever remember feeling this turned on. Not in her entire life.
“Be brave.” He gave her a half smile. “Just another minute, okay? I’ll clean it up and bandage it and you’ll be all set. Why don’t you tell me something about yourself…to get your mind off it.”
She cleared her throat, looking up and away from where he had his head bent over her leg so intimately.
“I, um…I’m here to—oh!”
He had dabbed the scrape with alcohol, which burned a little, but she wouldn’t have gasped from that. Zoë had withstood far worse pain in her life. No, she gasped because after applying the alcohol, he blew lightly on the cut, his breath cool and hot at once, making goose bumps pop up all over her body.
“Sorry!” he said, leaning back to look at her again with a small, encouraging smile. “Had to disinfect it. I know it stings.”
She smiled at him weakly, held captive by his blue eyes that crinkled at the corners.
Why did he have to be this gorgeous? Why couldn’t he have misrepresented himself too?
“It’s okay.”
“So, you’re here to…” He blew lightly on her knee again.
“…to paint a little, except—”
“Hey wait!” His head snapped up
and he cocked it to the side smiling at her in recognition.
He knows me! Oh, my God, he knows who I am and he’s…he’s smiling!
They spoke at the same exact time.
She lurched forward in the seat, blurting out her practiced speech: “Just let me say that I never meant to—”
At the same time., Paul said: “You’re the artist Nils picked up at the airport!”
“Wait! What?” she asked, taken aback. She was literally a breath away from saying: Just let me say that I never meant to deceive you…Instead she stared at him, confused.
“Nils Lindstrom? The guy who picked you up at the airport? He’s my friend. He told me you were staying at the Mountain View, just down the street. He sent me a text telling me the airline lost your painting supplies. He asked if I could help you out.”
“Oh,” she murmured, her shoulders drooping in frustration…and relief. She was grateful for the reprieve, even though it had been the perfect opening. “Yes. They never made it on the plane. They’re still in Providence.”
“Rhode Island?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Hey! How about that! I went to school in Rhode Island! Brown University!”
“Small world,” she said, looking back down at Cleo and distracting herself by scratching behind the small dog’s ears. The voice in her head insisted it was time to confess. She told the voice in her head to shut the hell up.
“For the record, you’re welcome to any art supplies you want,” he said with a warm smile. “I will gladly fling open the doors of the art department, and I hope you’ll pilfer to your heart’s content.”
“Oh, I couldn’t—”
“I insist,” he said, taking the strips off the adhesive of an oversized Band-Aid and smoothing it over her wound.
“As you wish,” she said softly.
His head jerked up and he blinked at her, making her think about what she’d just said. Oh, no! It was the catchphrase from The Princess Bride—the movie they’d bonded over. It must have bubbled up from her subconscious.
She chuckled nervously, and after a moment, he grinned back, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He was distracted, still smoothing his fingers over the bandage, back and forth across her knee, touching her skin at the edges.
“I—um…I love that movie. The Princess Bride,” he said softly, looking down at his fingers and jerking them away from her knee. Clumsily gathering the medical kit together, he took a deep breath and sighed. “It’s, um…it’s my girlfriend’s favorite movie too.”
He stepped away from her, placing the first-aid kit on the stairs before turning back around. When he did, he looked sheepish, his hands jammed in his pockets like they were being punished.
Oh, my God, Zoë realized, looking at him. He feels guilty.
She’d have to dissect that later. For now, she couldn’t bear the uncertainty on his face, knowing she was the duel cause.
“Everyone loves The Princess Bride,” she said, forcing a lightness into the low, breathy voice she’d been using since rescuing Cleo. “It’s a great movie.”
He nodded solemnly, but kept his distance, standing next to the newel post on the staircase.
Zoë looked down at her knee. “Thanks for bandaging me up.”
Her words seemed to break the tension between them, and he ran a hand through his hair. Holding the back of his neck with his palm, he looked at her. Whatever internal struggle he was battling, he decided to overrule it with a warm smile.
“Least I could do. After all, you saved my dog. I mean, I inherited her, but I’d miss her a lot if she was gone.”
Zoë placed Cleo on the floor and stood up. She needed to get out of his house. She obviously wasn’t ready to tell him the truth yet, which meant she needed to figure out what the heck she was doing.
“Well, I guess I’ll…” She gestured to the door, moving toward it to leave.
“Hey!” he called from behind her. “Do you drink coffee?”
She met his eyes over her shoulder. “Sure.”
“Then, let me take you out for a friendly cup of coffee tonight. Just to say thanks. And I’ll get you those art supplies tomorrow.”
His use of the word “friendly” wasn’t lost on her, and she couldn’t help but wonder if its use was in reaction to Zoë or out of respect for Holly. She’d think about that later too. On the up side, however, it meant she didn’t have to tell him the truth right now. With a confirmed date for coffee later, she’d have ample time to regroup and tell him tonight instead.
“I’d like that.”
He took his phone out of his back pocket. “It’s six now. I’ll come by at eight?”
“Eight’s great,” she said, grinning awkwardly at the rhyme. “I’m at the—”
“Mountain View.”
She looked at him quizzically and then remembered. “Nils told you. Right. Very friendly town you have here.”
If he caught her use of his word, he didn’t let on. Instead he grinned back at her. “Wait till you get to the Prairie Dawn.”
“The Prairie Dawn?” she asked, even though she knew exactly what it was. Heck, she knew Gardiner so well from his descriptions, she could probably walk there from Paul’s house blindfolded.
“My friend Maggie’s café. We’ll head there for coffee.”
She nodded, turning around to face him. She couldn’t bear to leave without touching him one more time. One more time when he doesn’t know yet. When he doesn’t hate you. She stuck out her hand.
He glanced down at her hand, then back at her eyes, and for a brief, terrible moment she thought he’d refuse to shake. Then he took a breath and raised his hand, engulfing hers in its strong warmth. She resisted the urge to sink into the contact. How she wanted to close her eyes and step forward against his body, to feel her breasts pressed against his chest, his arms wrapping around her. After a month and a half of virtual foreplay, shaking his hand simply wasn’t enough.
“Thanks again, Zoë.”
It was the first time she’d ever heard her name—her real name—pass his lips, and her body practically hummed in pleasure. She had to drop her eyes before he saw, before she gave herself away, but couldn’t resist squeezing his hand lightly before letting go.
“See you at eight,” she said, stepping back and closing his front door behind her.
***
Paul stared at the door, bewildered.
Damn it! Damn, damn, damn it!
He clenched his jaw, turning away from the door, reflexively pulling his phone out of his back pocket to check it, as though Holly—from thousands of miles away—had somehow caught him in the act of being attracted to another woman and written him an email to confront him. Part of him felt relieved to see that there were no messages from her.
What the hell is wrong with you, Paul? What the hell?
She’s not even your type. Not even close.
Just in case you’d forgotten? Holly’s your type. Sweet, sunny, smiling Holly with blonde hair, blue eyes, a trim body and a tan. Not this girl. Not this black-haired, dark-eyed, ghostly pale girl with a massive scar on her face and tattoos on her back!
She’s edgy, he thought, his eyes softening as he thought about her dark eyes under that fringe of black hair.
Wait. He didn’t like edgy, did he?
No, his brain insisted swapping Holly’s face for Zoë’s. No, you do not like edgy. You like sunny. Sunny like Buttercup. Sunny like Jenny. Sunny like Holly.
He rubbed his forehead, exhaling in an exasperated puff. He didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath. He’d probably been holding it since Zoë closed the door behind her. Heading through the kitchen, he grabbed another bottle of water before settling on the back-porch swing. He felt another wave of guilt sitting in his special Holly place.
Damn it. Why did you have to invite Zoë out for coffee?
He knew why. He wasn’t thinking with his head. When she’d breathed the words “As you wish” in her low voice it was possibly the sexiest thin
g he’d ever heard in his entire life. His whole body had reacted to the whispered words, blood rushing to places that had no business being excited by Zoë when he was seeing Holly in twenty-five days.
But, it was more than the catchphrase from his favorite movie. Her voice was so deep and soft and breathy and light; there was something about it that felt familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. Not only that, he’d been shaken up both times he’d touched her hand. A million times he’d shaken the hands of parents and students, other teachers and single women too, and never held on that extra beat—never staring into their eyes like he was attracted, like he was interested. What was it about clasping Zoë’s small hand that had felt so right? He shook his head, disgusted with himself. Nothing. That’s what. Because he couldn’t be interested. He was already taken.
Maybe it was his pent-up lust for Holly that he was projecting onto Zoë. He was so aroused all the time lately, maybe all it took was one unexpected girl on his doorstep and he was transformed into an overeager teenager lusting after a veritable stranger.
This thought comforted him a little bit because it meant that his reaction to Zoë was arbitrary and he placed distance between them in his mind. It had nothing to do with Zoë personally, per se, it was just that Paul was so hot and bothered by the thought of Holly, touching another woman was somehow affecting him. He took a deep breath and sighed in relief.
Hey, it could even be a sort of reverse Florence Nightingale syndrome too…when he’d promised Maurice to look after her, it had felt good. Saying those words had felt good and cleaning up her knee had felt good—helping her, taking care of her. They were the sort of words Westley would say about Buttercup. Speaking of Buttercup, Zoë was nothing like his ethereal blonde princess, which definitely meant he wasn’t attracted to her, right?
Except she had saved Cleo, injuring herself in the process, but never crying or complaining. She had courage, that was for sure. She was brave like Buttercup. And she was tender with his little dog, cradling Cleo gently against her amazing breasts.
Amazing. Breasts.
He grinned to himself, remembering Westley’s comment as Buttercup held a knife to her own chest, believing he was dead and about to kill herself in sorrow. “There's a shortage of perfect breasts in this world. It would be a pity to damage yours.”
